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East Pole, West Pole
| Article
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20133 |
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Section : |
LIFE
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| Issue
Date : |
2 / 1992 |
3,026 Words |
| Author
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Maya Wallach
Maya Wallach is a dance writer, critic, and photographer
currently based in Los Angeles |
It wasn't until my fifth day in Poland that I said more than "Hello, how much is a room?" to a Pole. And the most conversation Marcin had ever had with a native English speaker was "Hello, how do you like Poland?"
Marcin was an acquaintance of a friend of my mother's doctor. Twenty-one years old--"Well, almost," he admitted, lashes lowered-he wanted more than anything to study English. He leapt at the chance to show me southern Poland. We started with Auschwitz.
It was a gorgeous summer day. Rows of poplars waved brightly between the camp barracks. The lawns were overgrown with pink and blue and yellow wildflowers. The air smelled amazingly sweet. Marcin thought I was crazy. This was Auschwitz, and the air in this area of Poland was heavily polluted. I didn't argue, but I couldn't help enjoying the sunshine. I wondered if the Nazis had cut the grass so there wouldn't be any flowers, or if there were too many people for the grass to grow in the first place. "What difference would one flower make?" Marcin asked me I thought it could mean a lot.
We walked into the barracks dedicated to French victims. Most of the lights were off in the exhibit, and we didn't try to get them turned on. We went into a barracks called the House of Death and saw the rows of sinks covered with clothing. This is where prisoners undressed before walking into the courtyard to be shot. The basement was divided into holding cells, four "standing only" cells. In two of them, people had died of suffocation. It was hard to breathe, even in the hallway. I hurried back outside.
There were so many barracks, and each one was a complete museum dedicated to a particular group of victims or an aspect of camp "life." One hallway was lined with portraits of shaven prisoners: men with bright, excited eyes; strong beautiful women. Marcin pointed out the Polish barracks and then immediately deferred. "We don't have to go in. We go where you want. I've been here before."
"I want to go in. I'm Polish too, you know. My great-grandparents were born here." If felt strange but good to say it.
In side there was a wall with a list of Poles who had died in Auschwitz. I looked for Friedman, my great-great-grandfather's name on both sides of my family, and Blumenfeld, my grand-mother's maiden name. Then I looked up Wallach, my own name. All three names were
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